Not more than once or twice, and hardly that,
In a same century will another have it,
To know what I have lost. You do not know.
I’ve made for you only a picture of it,
No worse or better than a hundred others
Might be of the same thing—all mostly trash.
But I have found far more than I have lost
And so shall not go mourning. God was good
To give my soul to me before I died
Entirely, and He was no more than just
In taking all the rest away from me.
I had it, and I knew it; and I failed Him.
I did not wait.”
“You could not wait,” I told him,
“Instead of moulding you to suit the rules,
They made you mostly out of living brimstone,
[ 75 ]
